(This is the third part of a progressive story, conceived and begun by Jeff Jacobson.
Read part one here.
Read part two, by APN, here.
Penni's art Four is here.
And Nathan's posted part five over here.)

He didn’t want to hear the voices anymore. Didn’t want to think. There had been too much time to think on the bus back from Philly. He just didn’t want to think anymore.

Abe made his way into his tiny apartment, tossed his keys onto the coffee table, and stepped into the bathroom. Spotting the second toothbrush on the edge of the sink he quickly swept it into the garbage. He kicked off his high-tops, peeled off his jeans and t-shirt and kicked the meager pile away. With the water adjusted as hot as he could handle, he stepped into the shower stall, placed his forehead against the still-cool tiles and allowed the water to wash over him. He focused on the sound of the spray, the loud din as the stream hit the slippery base below his feet. Abe began to sing to himself slowly,

“What the hell is wrong with me?
I'm not who I want to be
I tired spot cream an' I tried it all
I'm crawling up the wall!
What's my name naaaame...naaaame....naaaame....”

Clash lyrics had been running though his head since he’d heard them performed at the club a few nights before. Next, his mind flicked back to portions of songs from a few years ago. Long after the water had turned cold, Abe found himself singing still, songs from his childhood he’d very nearly forgotten.

Abe shut the water off and stood shivering as he reached for a towel. It wasn’t clean, but he didn’t care. A quick snap of his wrist opened the dingy shower curtain and Abe caught a glimpse of himself in the foggy mirror. He paused to wipe away the steam with a corner of his towel. He stared at his rail-thin body, without the punk uniform he’d adopted as his own. He stared at his thin face and wet, limp hair without the signature style which made him recognizable anywhere. Abe was a little shocked to see his own reflection. He looked the same as the day when he’d reinvented himself.

Abe wrapped the towel around his waist, walked the few steps into his bedroom and sat on his bed. A long shelf ran the width of his bed, just above the headboard. Abe reached up to the neat row of small books lined up along its length. The only possessions that Abe cared about were these thirty journals, begun when he was old enough to walk uptown to the department store by himself. He selected the first volume, opened the front cover and his fingers ran over the faded paper with blue edges. He could still remember tearing this page out of the baby book his mother had started. “Baby boy: Abandon Beethoven Erstwhile” was printed in his mother’s tidy handwriting. The journal felt heavy in his hands and he tipped it up to look at it on edge. The pages splayed open. This book, as all the others, was stuffed with clippings and quotes, bits of drawings, lyrics and concert tickets. While he added new volumes from time to time, these works were in no way chronological. Abe went back and revisited each one, adding-to or re-working pages. It was a thirty volume puzzle that Abe poured over when anxious.

Abe slowly closed the book and returned it to its place on the shelf. He glanced out the window to see a stormy and oddly-coloured April dawn.

He rose and dressed quickly, then swallowed a few painkillers to dull the ache at the side of his head. Abe wondered when it was that he began to abandon his own life.